


Ain't We Got Fun

by hepsybeth



Series: Give Those Kids and Me the Brand New Century [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, M/M, i couldn't stop writing because i like these guys, lots of other newsies guys are mentioned but it's not about them in this story lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hepsybeth/pseuds/hepsybeth
Summary: "Racetrack Higgins had a history of misfortune, but that's not the entire story."





	Ain't We Got Fun

**Author's Note:**

> So, Racetrack and Spot are among the oldest Newsies characters imo. Also, my headcanon was always that Racetrack was Italian or Sicilian, which seemed to be a common headcanon with 1992!newsies. But, I also love Ben Tyler Cook's portrayal, so this Racetrack looks like him in my imagination. Still Sicilian, but like half since the "Higgins" part of his name had to have come from somewhere.
> 
> Also, it's hard to find Sicilian resources anywhere wtf
> 
> Title comes from "Ain't We Got Fun" by Billy Jones

Racetrack Higgins had a history of misfortune, but that's not the entire story.

What helped him through his misfortune was the fact that he inherited his big heart from his _matri_ and there was hardly a thing he could do about that. Things hurt him more than others, but he was able to help others. At least, that's what he told himself.

Not that long after his parents and younger brother, Tommaso, died of cholera, Racetrack, or “Antonio” as he was called before he discovered gambling, was forced to the streets. Gone were the gentle flickering of candles that used to make his parents room glow with a soft orange light, gone were the notes of a muted trumpet that his pa would play from their dingy kitchen table, gone were the petty fights he’d engage with his brother, gone were the walks to Mass and the playful way that his parents would mitigate their sons’ boredom by promising a trip to the local bakery after service was over, and gone were the grandiose tales his _matri_ would weave about her childhood home in Sperlinga and the embellished stories his pa would tell about his neighborhood in Weymouth.

At ten, Antonio was left with no family, no home, and a world he was far too scared to take part in.

What hurt the most was the memory of their farewells. Said by his family in weak voices and in between coughs, Antonio learned to hate them.

It was much easier to joke about it later (since who doesn’t a sob story to tell?), and it reflects better on his character when he claims that he got his footing from the get go and that the smelly and damp streets of Manhattan was nothing that a Higgins couldn’t handle. Young Antonio had his ups and downs (mostly downs), but he managed to find work eventually. First, it was shining shoes for local business men that hardly possessed the dignity to drop him a decent tip, then it was squeezing into a spot for a factory job where he saw plenty of kids lose fingers to the cold machines. He left to find work as an errand boy, and sold the news at street corners on the side. Little by little, his earnings added up and a now thirteen-year-old Antonio finally felt that things were on the up and up.

He was still living on the streets (or squatted inside abandoned buildings if the weather called for it), but that wasn’t a large concern of his.

He met a lot of boys in similar positions. A Jack Kelly here, a Crutchie Morris there. Together, they formed a trifecta of sorts. Three smelly musketeers against the world. Not too long after, they adopted other kids into their ragtag army. Some went by their Christian names (Albert, Jake, Elmer), but most didn’t (Skittery, Specs, Jojo, Dutchy, Swifty). They were all young and they all had their own stories. Some had no parents, some had run away. None of them judged the other for their choices, but they all helped each other through their issues when they could. Racetrack took the younger members of their gang under his wing, showing off what he had learned and generally being a big brother again.

While he had finally found stability in Manhattan, that didn’t stop Antonio from wanting to find a little adventure of his own. A change in scenery was on the table and he packed up his very meager bags and set off. Along the way, he even hopped a ferry. Maybe he felt guilty for not saying his farewells, especially since he was one of the oldest in their group, but he hated farewells and that was that. He didn’t know where exactly he was setting off for, but his feet grew tired by the time he asked a local where he was at.

“Brooklyn,” said the local.

So, Brooklyn it was.

Antonio found a small dirty alleyway between even dirtier buildings, but his fear of dark alleyways had vanished by the time he turned eleven. He placed two of his bags down, slid his back down the side of the building behind him in exhaustion, and felt his eyes begin to droop.

Later, he’d realize it was a rookie mistake. He hadn’t noticed the group of men further down the alleyway and he especially hadn’t realized they were walking towards him. For as soon as his eyes closed, a man began pulling at his bags and finally yanked them from the younger boy’s arms. Antonio only just managed to take note of his face. He was pale and bald and had thick caterpillar-like red eyebrows.

Antonio totally understood why he did nothing. He was tired and taken by surprise. He promised himself it wouldn’t happen again, but he sure as shit felt devastated as he watched the lone man run away with the few clothes and knick knacks he had while the other men beat him into a pathetic bloody pulp.

It ended, like all things eventually do, and Antonio found himself in the fetal position on a disgusting ground with not a single thing to lay claim to in this world, save the threadbare clothes he wore.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed (being beat up does that to a person), but he was roughly put into the seated position. Two rough hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him back and forth until he opened his eyes.

“Are you okay?” the boy asked. It sounded like a boy. Things were still blurry and out of focus and Racetrack noticed that it seemed to be sunny out. Which meant that he’d been out for the count for hours.

 _Minchia_.

“Tha’s... a stupid question,” Antonio said slowly. He raised a hand to his eyes and roughly wiped them. He blinked slowly and things began coming into focus. A boy was crouched in front of him. He had curly black hair and serious brown eyes, like he was an angry old man somehow stuck inside the body of someone much younger. Besides a fading dark shiner over his left eye, he was otherwise fairly tan. “Who d’ fuck are you?”

“You can call me Conlon,” the boy answered. He removed his hands from Antonio’s shoulders, probably because he figured Antonio was plenty awake.

“Nah. I think I’m gonna call ya Spot,” Antonio answered. The voice of his mother came to his head, warning him not to be so _diffìcili._ He ignored it.

The boy scowled. “What?”

“Because of d’ spot on ya face.”

Conlon, or “Spot” as Antonio decided to refer to him as from here on out, felt for the shiner and his scowl deepened. “It’s jus’ a black eye.”

“Or a black _spot_.”

“Shut up.”

“What? Do ya want me t’ call ya “Black Eye”, because if ya ask me, that sounds like a pretty crappy name.” Antonio steadily got to his feet and instantly felt nauseous. He couldn’t tell if it was from the awful smell that permeated the street or just the after affect of being beat up.

“You could just call me by my _actual name_.” Spot crossed his arms and Antonio had to fight the urge to laugh. Finally standing straight up, he was able to see how short the other kid was. It’d been a long while since Antonio was taller than someone else (a lot of the younger kids in his Manhattan gang were still taller than him somehow) and it was nice.

“Well, what’s d’ fun in that?” And then the nausea hit him again and Antonio barely turned in the other direction before throwing up onto the ground below. Once he was finished, he sighed. “Tha’s so much better, let me tell ya.”

“Look, are you okay?” Spot asked again, deciding that the case of his name wasn’t worth arguing about. “And what happened to you. Who are you?”

“I’m okay. I think,” Antonio said. “Some asshole stole my stuff and other assholes kicked me around.” He held out a grimy hand. “Name’s Higgins. Antonio Higgins.”

“No stupid nickname?”

“Still workin’ on it.”

“How ‘bout Idiot?”

“Idiots are a dime a dozen,” he said, repeating the phrase he had heard over the years. “There’s only one of me.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “I have a place. We could use an extra pair of hands. You want in?”

And Antonio didn’t question it for a moment. It was either sleep on these streets again or trust some kid who offered help. If anything sketchy happened to him, he was gonna blame his _matri_ and their big hearts.

“Yeah!”

* * *

 

 

The place was actually an honest to God place. It was a lodging house for a variety of workers, but as long as the kids paid their share, no question was asked. In fact, there were so many kids, Antonio doubted anyone kept real track of them. And despite its humble interior, Antonio wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between this and some fairy tale castle. There were windows, there were beds, there were tables with cloth, there were beds, there were faucets with silverware, and there were _beds_.

While he stood inside, looking all around absolutely entranced, some lady shoved a towel into his chest and made a comment about him looking “a state” and ordered him to clean himself off in the bathroom down the hall.

Inside the bathroom, there was a bucket with water, a sink, a bar of brown soap, and a mirror. Antonio got straight to work. He doused the bar of soap into the bucket and started scrubbing at his legs, then his stomach, then his arms, even an attempt to scrub as far as he could reach at his back. He scrubbed suds of soap into his hair and down finally used the towel to dry himself off. After all the cleaning it, was almost a shame that he had to wear his old dirty clothes again, but, hey. He was clean. Not with rainwater either. With honest to goodness soap.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His blonde hair was dark with the water and his blue eyes seemed brighter than he remembered. The dirt was gone and his even the cuts and bruises on his skin seemed cleaner. He smiled widely. He saw his pa in his smile. Antonio struck some poses and decided he looked absolutely fucking respectable.

Eventually, the lady came back to check on him (probably because Antonio hadn’t left because he was too busy admiring himself in the mirror) and once back where he was before, he saw Spot among a group of other boys. Spot was shorter than them all, but he seemed to be in charge. Spot noticed Antonio standing in the middle of all the bustle of the room and beckoned him towards the group. Once there, Spot explained that they were planning on going out that afternoon but they hadn’t decided where to. Another one of the boys asked Antonio if he had any suggestions.

“I’m from Manhattan,” Antonio explained, shrugging. “I jus’ arrived yesterday.”

“Manhattan, huh,” one of the other boys said, with some negative implication in his tone. Antonio felt his fists unconsciously clench, instinctively ready to defend his piss poor neighborhood. Who was this piece of shit to say something about his neighborhood?

“Hey, Boots,” Spot said, holding out a hand. “He’s alright.”

Antonio unclenched his fists.

“What's your name?”

“Higgins for now,” Antonio said. “I’m workin’ on som’tin more permanent. But if youse are havin’ some trouble finding something to do, I guess you need a new pair of eyes. Me!”

The boys left the boarding house and went walking. Not much of Brooklyn looked too much different from Manhattan. Same hazy smoke, similar brightly colored side shops, familiar sights of groups of families running up and down the newly paved street like they had somewhere important to be. It was just as fast-paced as the place he left. Hell, it was only due to the fact that he knew all of Manhattan like the back of his hand that reminded him that he was somewhere else.

Along the way, Spot introduced him to the other three boys. There was Boots, a colored boy with a stick up his ass when it came to Manhattan, but he otherwise seemed good-natured. The shoes he wore looked too big for him and he explained that it was on account of the fact that he constantly lost his shoes and he took what he could to fix that. There was also this fellow who went by Bumlets. He was fairly quiet and didn’t say much during the whole trek, but he whistled to make up for it. Lastly, there was a guy who went by Henry.

“Just Henry?” Antonio asked, astounded.

“Well,” Henry said, scratching his head. His brown hair was closely cropped to his head. Boots told Antonio that it was because of he tried to give himself a haircut and it ended up a travesty, so they just cut it all off. “My whole name is Henry Augustus Lionel Thompson. But I just go by Henry.”

“Kinda dull,” Antonio stated when his eyes caught a glimpse of a bald man wearing a bright red shirt and extremely thick red eyebrows that seemed to take up a great deal of his forehead.

“Caterpillar eyebrows!” Antonio shouted. In that moment, he forgot about the boys he was with and he dashed down the street after the man who began running as well.

Antonio dodged people, jumped sewers, kept himself from petting a dog that looked like it was asking to be pet. Because he was after the man who took his stuff and he was going to _get his stuff_.

He eventually lost the man, and he cursed in frustration. He didn’t know this city. He didn’t even know where the hell he was. But there seemed to be a loud noise of people nearby, so Antonio followed it.

It seemed to be an arena of some sort. Various people, mostly upper-class if their appearance was any indication, were gathered in stands. The tall stands looked down into a field with a track, the type that one would see at a race of some sort. It went around the entire field and people were cheering and the announcer was shouting and instead of men running around the field, horses were galloping. There were men riding atop the horses, but there were horses.

“Whoa,” Antonio murmured to himself. He wanted a better look, so he squeezed into a small space where some adults were standing and talking about things he didn’t understand. He walked up a set of stairs and kept walking until the field was more visible and he could see the horses. He pushed himself down the row of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen until he found a seat.

Down below, he could see an announcer with a megaphone standing on top of something tall and he was surrounded by a group of men in fancy grey and blue suits.

“Five hundred!” he shouted.

The men shouted back.

“Six hundred!” he shouted.

The men shouted back.

This went on for some time until Antonio realized that this was gambling. They were betting on the horses.

Antonio had never gambled in his life. His _matri_ said it was a mortal sin and his pa tended to agree with anything his wife said. So, Antonio had never considered it. But here, seated among this crowd, a sort of electricity went through the air and Antonio knew that this place was the right place for him.

All he needed was some money.

“Higgins!”

Antonio looked to his left. Behind the rows of black top hats and women’s large fur coats, he managed to see Spot standing at the end of the row. At the moment, he appeared to be arguing with some older man. Antonio stretched his arm out and waved at his new friend.

“Spot!”

“Higgins!” Spot made a “come here” motion and Antonio took one last look at the racing horses and basked once more under the cold winter sun and grinned at the sounds of from the cheering crowd. Then, he pushed through the row of seated adults until he was at Spot’s side.

“Hey, Spot! What’s cookin’?”

Spot didn’t answer because the older man he was arguing with gestured at the two of them. “Now,” he started, the cigar in his mouth turning until it rolled to the other side. “I don’t know where you two ragamuffins came from, but I’ll have you know that we don’t allow your types around here. Now go on!”

“What types are you talkin’ about?” Spot said, fire in his eyes.

“Dirty children.”

“Now tha’s jus’ rude.” Antonio gestured at himself. “I just took a bath for the first time in months and I’ll wager I’m cleaner than your underwear!” He smiled and looked at Spot who just rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“Security!” The man yelled. This garnered some unwanted attention from other adults and the two boys shared a knowing look that only came through years of running from authority.

So, they ran. They ran from the stadium and towards wherever it was Spot had left the other boys. The five boys eventually settled on just hanging around the Brooklyn Bridge until some people complained they were causing a disturbance. Slowly, the blue of the daytime sky darkened into a deep purple and they entered the doors of the boarding house. While they ate, Spot and the others made a comment that Antonio needed to start earning his keep if he planned on staying.

“Sure.” He thought back to the stadium and the horses. “Hell, I’ll make double what youse make. Triple even.”

“How?” Spot asked.

“I’ll bet on money at the racetrack.”

“You have to have money to bet at the racetrack.”

“It’s my calling, Spot.”

“Dumb calling, Racetrack.” Suddenly realizing what he had done, he raised his chin like it was final. “You call me Spot, and I’ll call you Racetrack.”

Antonio, or Racetrack now, grinned at Spot and finished the rest of his food. He continued to stare at him until Spot called him on it.

"Whaddya want?" Spot asked.

"You have interesting eyes." And they were plenty interesting to Racetrack. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the exhilaration from the horse racetrack that still pumped through his veins, but despite the annoyance in the boy's gold-speckled brown eyes, they were interesting to Racetrack. If he knew of the word back then, he'd say he was "entranced".

"Yeah, well you have stupid eyes."

"I'll have ya know that my eyes are delightful."

One of the women serving the food whacked behind both of their heads and sharply told them to stop wasting time at the table. The boys laughed and continued eating, never ceasing to make snide remarks between bites.

Days came and went, like days tend to. Racetrack remembered the skills he had learned at his various occupations while in Manhattan and applied them to Brooklyn. Weeks passed, and then so did months. A year and a half went by and Racetrack felt like he ought to leave again. He said no farewells and tried not to feel guilty about it. He just tied up his bags and left.

 _I’ll be back_ , he swore to himself, _I know I will_.

Racetrack made his way back to Manhattan. He thanked God when he was able to find his old friends where they used to hang out. Jack and Crutchie saw him first and they looked at each other with knowing eyes. Then they looked at Racetrack. He shrugged and bit his lip. Then the two other boys smiled, seeing the apology in his eyes.

Sometimes, things were better left unsaid. And forgiveness came easy among friends.

Racetrack reintroduced himself with his new name. He told tall tales of the things he went through in Brooklyn and the perilous trials that had kept him from coming back. He was introduced to the newer members of the gang and slowly, but surely, like went back to how it was.

Racetrack still went back to Brooklyn time to time to see a certain Spot Conlon and that became a reality of his existence.

* * *

 

Years passed by, misfortune came and went, and Racetrack found himself in 1921 sitting underneath the bright moonlight in some part of the woods in Brooklyn.

“Ain’t this what you’d call romance?” Racetrack joked. “No talk about work. We’re keepin’ a strictly romantic atmosphere.”

“It’d be more romantic if you got wine or somethin’, not beer,” Spot said beside him. They sat on the mossy floor of the woods, back to a large rock. The entire walk here, Spot had been tense. His hand always jerked to his side and his neck turned at every sound that came from within the woods.

“Ain’t you the bootlegger?” Racetrack asked. He snuggled closer to him, observing all the lightning bugs that flickered in the distance. “You coulda gotten the top grade shit.”

“You were the one surprisin’ me, Race” Spot said simply. "An' I don't mess with the shit more than I need to."

“Deal wit’ it, then.”

Racetrack didn’t have to be looking at Spot to know that he was rolling his eyes.

“How’s your leg by the way?”

Spot sighed. “What happened to keeping a “strictly romantic atmosphere”?”

It was Racetrack’s turn to roll his eyes. “C’mon, Spot.”

Spot ran his fingers through Race’s hair. “It was just a small skirmish. Some idiot got butter fingers and his gun went off. Alerted some Prohies who got tipped off about our spot. Some Prohie's bullet hit me. It was supposed to be a simple exchange of the shit." Race could practically hear Spot scowling. "Butterfingers might have gotten caught in the crossfire, but who’s to say. We made the exchange the next day somewhere else with some other folk. More cash for the rest of us since we were down a man. Coulda been a worse bloodbath than it was. Hurts like a bitch to walk on the leg, though.”

“You could use a crutch,” Racetrack suggested.

“And limp around like your cripple friend? Definitely not.”

“He doesn’t like it when people call him that.”

“Fine. I ain’t usin’ no crutch, though. I’m a businessman. I can’t do business leanin’ on a crutch.”

“What about a cane?”

Spot cocked his head to the side, considering. “That might do. I can whack people with a cane.”

Racetrack held out his flask of beer to Spot. Spot raised it and they clincked them. “I’ll drink to that.” And he did.

“Business is goin’ good besides that.” The “strictly romantic atmosphere” had been abandoned for the time being. “Someday, someday soon, I’ll be able to pay enough for an apartment for us two. No prying eyes, no need for us to head to the woods.”

“There’s no prying eyes in the woods?”

“I’ll just shoot the fuck who tries anything about it.”

Racetrack laughed. “Alright. Can we go back to the romance now?”

“Absolutely,” Spot said softly. “You have beautiful eyes.”

Racetrack laughed until he snorted. And then his hands were on Spot’s face and Spot’s hands were on his back and they kissed while surrounded by lightning bugs. Racetrack figured his past misfortune was terrible and that losing his family was even worse. But now his good fortune was in the shape of the man kissing him and his family was the man he loved. And that was alright with him.

**Author's Note:**

> so Spot's a bootlegger (or a "businessman"), Race is a jack-of-all-trades. Also, I have no idea what the gay scene was like the in the 20s, but I see Spot as more of a cautious/paranoid type.
> 
> Also, I have literally never been to new york in my life and that's a fact, jack!
> 
> leave some reviews if you like!!


End file.
